


Flower Petals

by notabrawler



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-18 10:13:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2344664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notabrawler/pseuds/notabrawler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At some sort of Authority hosted barbecue, Dean both loves and hates an interesting trinket Seth has in his hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flower Petals

It was the flower that held Dean’s attention.

Woven in by a pair of either loving or expert (perhaps both) hands, the stubbed end of the stem disappeared into the curled bun at the peak of Seth’s spine, while the intricate braid held the warm greenish leaves and veins through the cross-hatching of intermingled light and dark hair until the flower bloomed —- still seemed to be blooming, according to Dean’s traitorous eyes —- near the hollow by his former partner’s temple.

The flower itself was pink. If asked, that would be the only answer Dean would give. But in truth, he knew only the hue was pink. He could see after intense scrutiny, and he had indeed scrutinized, that the flower was a silky white, accented with veins and pulses of red and purple, offering only the illusion of pink at the gently sagging tips of each overlapping petal. From the core of this mysterious and grudgingly beautiful creation, came a budding of yellow orbs, of which seemed to float unattached and unbothered to the rest of the flower, indifferent to its hues and inclination to the planet’s rules of matter and gravity; they floated as if disconnected, yet all the while binding the flower together, as though it was the nucleus, and the petals and stem and everything else ever to exist were merely neutrons and electrons, dancing about, helpless, and loving and in a state of surrender.

As the night drew on, Dean observed a change in the jewelry (because what else could he call it? It was adorned on Seth’s head, much like ribbons he had seen in young girl’s hair in the height of summer, or as a princess might wear her tiara). When plucked, or snipped, or in whatever way the thing was gathered, it had been stiff, and had remained so when Dean had first observed the aberration. But hours dripped by and soon the folds and delicate twists formed perfectly to Seth’s skull and hair, marking the adornment as something that must have always been there, delicate and unobtrusive, but bending and highlighting his face in a way that seemed both magical and utterly natural.

Dean would try not to imagine how the flower had arrived in its position. But the ideas came nonetheless. Each fantasy offering different amounts of anger, jealousy, and grudging pain, although in unique varying results of each. One story he conjured, the one of Seth finding the plant in a nearby garden and plucking it on his own, then spending hours weaving it carefully into his hair, brought a weary and unconscious smile to Dean’s lips. While others, ones of Hunter searching the particular plant out and casting it into the hair of his new beloved with practiced assiduous ease, drove Dean nearly to the point of barely bridled insanity. It was a difficult thing, to keep from debating which it might be, but one thing remained the same——

He could not find it in himself to look away on his own volition. It was only when Seth’s brown and round eyes would look to Dean and blink in their owlish way was he able to grunt and cast his eyes to the ground or to the faraway mountains, where the trees were thick and the wilderness strong and all thoughts of beautiful flowers and delicate hands would be all but impossible.

Another thought began to intrude, one that was, in its own right, more alarming than the idea of where the flower had come from: what would it taste like? Would it taste like Seth’s skin? Would it be a confluence of his hair and sweat and the earthy greenness of the petals? Would it be like honey and pollen and the filthy dirt it came from?

Seth disappeared into the rolling mansion that Hunter and the rest of the Authority lovingly and unabashedly called, their home.The windows were drawn presumably to keep the glaring sun out, but to Dean’s poverty and suspicious laden eyes it was to keep the weaker folk, the scumbag folk, from looking inside, perhaps finding things they liked. Maybe things they wanted to steal.

His mind was turning over to the much more tolerable and dreamlike, what does that sweet flower smell like?, when Dean felt a touch at his elbow. He snapped his head to look, eyes dark below his brow.

Seth.

Something tried to soften in Dean’s face and he held it hard with oppressive grit and a deep well of nerved steel he had called upon many times before.

A petal hung precariously, attached by a silken sliver to the still vibrant stem, it cast a long warm shadow over Seth’s cheekbone. The desperate impulse to reach forward and somehow fix it was nearly as overwhelming as it was shameful. Dean managed to keep his hands in his lap, despite the way they twitched and squirmed.

Why did he have to look so… precise? So exactly how he should? So… exactly as Dean always imagined?

"What? You’re looking at me like I have something on my face or something."

Dean scowled and picked up his beer. It was empty. He pretended to take a sip. “That thing looks stupid in your hair.”

Seth tapped the bottom of the bottle. “Want another one?”

"No. I have to go."

The hurt and disappointment on Seth’s face was nearly enough to make the night worthwhile. The feeling of triumph pushed further when Seth’s hand raised and gingerly touched at the flower tangled in his hair, as though he had forgotten it was there at all. The errant petal fell away, to Dean’s elation and horror. It see-sawed carelessly to the grass at their feet, and along with it went any private catharsis Dean had felt.

He pushed off from the house and handed his empty bottle over to Seth. Impulsively, Dean leaned down and plucked up the petal, he stuffed it into his back pocket and hoped Seth wouldn’t ask why. He didn’t.

"You can’t stay for a little while longer? It’s been so busy we haven’t been able to talk."

Dean looked anywhere but at Seth.

“At all. We haven’t been able to talk at all and I asked if you could come, I hoped that you could come, because I’ve missed you. Just being around you, even if you’re pissed… which I guess you are all the time anyway. So, I guess I miss that—-“

This was cruel. “I need to leave, Seth.” There’s nothing here for me. So let me take this petal and leave.

Near the rest of the gathered guests, the tinkling sound of broken glass cut across the still, heavy air. The dissonance echoed in Dean’s mind, creating caverns and shaking him out of his temporary paralysis. He turned and made for the gate. He had thought Seth was going to let him leave —- mercifully —- but he heard his name. He halted without turning.

"You’ll come back?" Seth said.

"Yeah." Dean said. He told himself he was lying for Seth’s sake, but the truth was he wasn’t lying at all.

Surely that petal would wilt, and he would need another.


End file.
